


The Old Gods and The New

by Veeebles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Another reunion, F/M, I wrote this before S08E04 came out and thought i would post it anyway, Reconciliation, Reconciling Blackwater, Reunion, Sandor POV, Sandor at the Quiet Isle mentioned, Sandor in Winterfell, Sandor's sister mentioned, Sansa at the Eyrie mentioned, The godswood, babies in love, mentions of past trauma and abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 19:11:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18857308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veeebles/pseuds/Veeebles
Summary: He looks up into the blood red leaves, looks into the bleeding eyes of the face carved long ago in to the trunk. He looks and hears silence and thinks of his sister’s kind face, her eyes the colour of a sky heavy with rain that mirrored his own, her long, dark curls that bounced around her as they ran through their father’s Keep together. Her face twisted in sorrow, tears staining her cheeks when their brother pushed her to the ground and broke her dolls. Old, familiar hate twists in his gut and he closes his eyes, thinking instead of his sister’s voice when she sang to him while they sat with their Hounds, stroking the soft fur and feeding them meat stolen from the kitchens.“You always told me you don’t believe in the Gods.”





	The Old Gods and The New

> The North is a cold place. Colder than anything Sandor has ever known.

He often finds himself wondering what kind of man he would have become had this been his home. Had his father sent him to squire here, away from his brother’s wrath, away from the corruption of the Red Keep. Who would Sandor Clegane have become?

He scuffs his boot through the powder snow, dusting his clothes from black to grey. He doesn’t wear his armour here and he feels naked without it, the humble common clothes he wears keeps him warm, lines with fur from the Wildlings’ clothes, leather and linen wrapping his form up and steals the mass he once had.

The tree has an ethereal beauty to it, its leaves shining like blood against the white of its bark, the white of the snow. This place is quiet compared to the noise of Winterfell’s Keep. The rustle of the trees, the far away call of birds in the sky, the ripple of the springs’ water in the wind accompanies the silence. This place has a strange presence to it. He’s never been a religious man. He’s spent his whole life spitting in the faces of the Gods, be it the Seven, the Lord of Light or any others. He doesn’t see the need to give his thoughts to deities that have never lent aid to the thousands he has watched suffer. He sees corruption in it all, too many people doing horrible deeds in the names of their Gods. Even his time in the Quiet Isle, he never gave much faith to it. He prayed as instructed and never heard a reply. Instead, he had taken to praying to his sister. He mused that if anyone was out there, listening to him, it would be her.

He looks up into the blood red leaves, looks into the bleeding eyes of the face carved long ago in to the trunk. He looks and hears silence and thinks of his sister’s kind face, her eyes the colour of a sky heavy with rain that mirrored his own, her long, dark curls that bounced around her as they ran through their father’s Keep together. Her face twisted in sorrow, tears staining her cheeks when their brother pushed her to the ground and broke her dolls. Old, familiar hate twists in his gut and he closes his eyes, thinking instead of his sister’s voice when she sang to him while they sat with their Hounds, stroking the soft fur and feeding them meat stolen from the kitchens.

“You always told me you don’t believe in the Gods.”

He turns at that voice and stills when he sees the Little Bird standing in the snow. She’s wrapped in her black leather and fur cloak, red hair shimmering and floating around her shoulders in the morning breeze, shining like her tree, bright and beautiful.

“I don’t.”

She smiles softly and comes closer, the snow crunching beneath her boots. She stands before him, looking up into his face and he resists the urge to flinch, surprised at her steady gaze upon his eyes.

“What are you doing here, then?”

He thinks about lying but the words sour in his mouth as they always do. He hates liars and has never uttered a lit in his life. He sees no reason to stop now, if he can’t be honest in this new place he has found, this new world and new life, where can he? He has never lied to her, he pushes his pride away and tells the truth.

 “Praying.”

That surprises her, as he knew it would. Her brows rise and she looks bemused. He dares her to laugh at him, knowing she has reason to when he teased her for years about her own faith to silent Gods.

“To whom?”

He scoffs, looks back up to the leaves and tries to ignore the thundering in his chest at her presence, being so close after so long. The first he has truly seen of her since he first came to Winterfell.

“Anyone who will listen.”

She’s quiet, he feels her gaze upon him and turns back to look down at her despite himself. She’s grown taller, where she used to come no higher than his breastplate, she nearly reaches his chin now. Her Tully blues wander over the scars of his face, along his jaw, his hair grown long and wild, up to his eyes and his heart flutters at her steady, confident gaze. Its foreign to him. He used to know a little girl that would sooner stare at the stone floor than at his face, he remembers how it had enraged him. He, who never cared how people stared at him, he had wanted her to look upon him, wanting something from her he hadn’t understood. He had wanted her to look at him the way she does now. Accepting. Understanding. No fear quivering in her depths.

“You look so different, and yet the same, somehow.”

He barks out a laugh and watches her lips curl at the edges.

“The years have changed up both. I’ve got a few more scars to add to these old ones.”

Her gaze softens and a shadow passes over her eyes. She drops her gaze to the clasp of his cloak and looks melancholic.

“We have both gained more than our fair share of scars.”

He had heard of all that had happened to her. He had heard she had been passed from abuser to abuser, broken down and come face to face with death itself before reeling back from the edge. He had heard how she had exerted her revenge on her husband, heard that she had set his own beloved Hounds against him. He had laughed at that, finding the irony in it. He had long since wanted to be the one to watch the light fade from the Botlon Bastard’s eyes and found that in some way, he had.

He watched old ghosts haunt her, sorrow he does not want her to feel stealing the light in her eyes and he reaches out before thinking, tilting her chin up with his thumb and finger until her eyes meet his once more.

“Little bird.”

He watches the sorrow wash away to be replaced with a spark of familiarity. She smiles, a real smile and it has his blood flooding his ears.

“It had been a long time since I have been called that. Cersei used to call me ‘little dove’. I hated it. I wanted to throw her wine in her face every time I heard her say it. But you, you called me Little Bird and I didn’t mind.”

He chuckles, some part of him pleased that she enjoyed his name for her, that she had remembered it after all these years. He goes to pull his hand away, but she catches it in her own. He watches with bated breath as she spreads his fingers and presses his palm to her cheek, leaning in against his calloused skin. Her cheek is soft, his hand swamps her face and he would laugh at the size difference if this were any other moment. One not so precious.

Her eyes fall open and she looks at him with a softness he has never known.

“They told me at the Eyrie that the Hound had died. I wept for near a week.”

He would laugh at that, that someone like her should weep for the loss of a brute like him. He had buried The Hound in the ground and resolved to live his life as a new man, as Sandor Clegane, not a dog, not a slave to any man. He had lived as a silent brother and nothing more and had found a semblance of peace that he had sought his whole life.

“I regretted Blackwater. I should have come with you. I shouldn’t have been so scared. I had learned not to trust anyone. I wanted so much to go with you, I knew you wouldn’t hurt me, I knew you only wanted to keep me safe. I was so scared that it was all just one of my silly dreams, that we would have been caught and I imagined all the awful things Joffrey would have done to me. To you.”

“If you had left with me, you would have died alongside your mother and brother.”

Tears swim in her eyes and she presses his hand closer to her cheek, her own hand against his fingers cold and quivering.

“But you would have taken me there. You would have done what no one else would. You would have risked your life just to bring me home.”

He has never lied to her.

“Aye. I would have.”

Her tears fall and he raises his other hand to gently wipe them away, like he had wiped the blood from her lip all those years ago, like he had draped his cloak over her in court, like he had caught her on the top of the serpentine, like he had gently prodded her along when he collected her from he chambers and saw her quivering in fear, like he had lifted her as gently as he could after killing her assailants after the bread riots.  

He realises how close she is to him now. He can count the lashes adorning her lids, can see the streaks of grey in her eyes, can feel her small breaths upon his neck.

“You will fight for us now? For the North?”

“For you,” he speaks without thinking. His lips quivering as the words of the oaths he has always spat on clambered up from his chest, clamour over his tongue and push at his lips, longing to speak them out loud.

“If you’ll have me.”

She smiles, comes closer. He scarce dares to breathe when she brushes her lips gently against his, kissing him softly and he feels as if he might faint from it. It’s sweeter than any wine. Warmer than any fire. Softer thank the powdered snow. When she pulls away her cheeks are flushed a lovely red, her eyes hooded and boring into his soul. She wraps her arms around him, and he lets himself hold her small form against him. He looks to the carved face once more, nose buried in her sweet-smelling hair and feels something burn in his chest. He will fight for her. He will fight for this North, for this place he could call home.

The Hound is dead, but Sandor Clegane feels very much alive.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before the reunion between Sansa and Sandor was released ad i have a couple other fics of reunions between them i am working on right now and will post soon. I went a bit mad at the start of the season thinking i wasn't going to get a reunion between them and ended up writing lots of them - i will post them soon! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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